Alma Trueblood drew herself up. “I never liked having her around. She was a bad influence on my children and I must tell you, Officer, I won’t have the family drawn into anything sordid.”
“Wow,” said Stahl.
“What is that supposed to mean, young man?”
“You seem pretty angry.”
“I am not angry! I am protective. My brother needs protection—look at him. First his heart, then his liver and his kidneys. Everything’s failing. I’m footing the bill for this place, and, believe me, it adds up to a pretty penny. If I wasn’t, Donald would end up in some Veterans Affairs hospital. No, I won’t hear of that. The Good Lord’s been kind to me, and my big brother will rest here for however long it takes. Now, don’t think me cruel. I regret hearing about Ernadine. However, she left the family years ago, and I won’t have her ruining things.”
“Ruining things by dying?”
“By . . . associating us with whatever sordid life she led. We—my husband and I, William T. Trueblood—are well respected in the community. We endow many worthy causes, and I won’t have Mr. Trueblood’s name dragged into anything unsavory. Is that clear?”
“Very.”
“I’ll thank you to leave, then.” Alma Trueblood popped the clasp on the green croc purse, offering Stahl a view of the contents. Lots of stuff inside, but everything neatly arranged—parcels wrapped in filmy tissue paper. First time he’d seen a purse that organized.
“Ever spend time in the military, Mrs. Trueblood?”
“Why would you ask that? Ridiculous.” Thick fingers probed the bottom of the purse, found a small gold case that she opened. Out came a cream-colored calling card. “Have someone inform me as to Ernadine’s burial arrangements. I’ll be footing the bill. Of course. Good day, young man.”
Stahl slipped the card in a jacket pocket. Great paper, heavy weight, silky gloss.
Baby sister had climbed socially.
He headed for the door.
Alma Trueblood said, “You’d better do something about that narcolepsy of yours. I’m sure your superiors wouldn’t be pleased to hear about it.”
37
Milo called late in the afternoon. “Petra and I figured it’s time to give Drummond’s parents another try. No prints in the Honda other than Kevin’s on the steering wheel and the driver’s door handle, and a few scattered smudges from various Inglewood tow-yard folk. No blood, no body fluids, no weapons. No link to Erna Murphy, either, but Petra did find someone who saw her getting into a small, light car the night she was killed. Walking distance from the kill spot. Kevin’s car wasn’t towed till the next day.”
“Who’s the witness?” I said.
“Speedfreak hustler,” he said. “It’s not sterling, but it does firm up the time frame: Kevin picks her up, finishes her off, cuts town.”
“After wiping Erna’s prints from his car. Had it been washed recently?”
“Hard to tell with it sitting in the yard all this time. Lab guys did say the passenger door appeared to be too clean, as in wipedown. That’s an indication of criminal intent, which is why we want to lean on Mommy and Daddy. Your suggestions and your presence would be appreciated. Psychological strategy and all that.”
“When?” I said.
“After dark. Couple of hours. I’ll pick you up, Petra’ll meet us there.”
“Not Stahl?”
“Petra’s got him on the computer. See you in two. Start warming up the old insight machine.”
When it comes to dealing with people, you can only rehearse so much. But the three of us tried, sitting in Petra’s Accord on a quiet, Encino street. The spot was two blocks west of Franklin and Teresa Drummond’s house, in the shade of a shaggy, anthropomorphic pepper tree. The moonlight was feeble, just enough to transform branches to grasping limbs. From time to time a car drove by, but no one noticed us.
Petra filled us in on the Drummonds. “Does any of that sound like breeding ground for a psycho killer, Alex?”
“So far,” I said, “it sounds like upper-middle-class suburban life.”
She nodded, ruefully. “I figure we focus on Frank—his being dominant and all that. If we ignore him, we run the risk of alienating him right from the start.”